FLORA AND THaLIA. 47 



THE CHRISTMAS RO.SE. 



The garden boasts no beauty now, 



Its summer graces all are fled ; 

 Fi'ost glitters on the leafless bough, 



And branch and spray alike seem dead. 



Yet here, regardless of the chill. 

 The sternness of the wintry hour. 



One pleasing blossom greets us still, 

 A fair, though unassuming flower. 



In changeful life 'tis even so. 



False friends fall off when storms arise ; 

 They shared our joy, but shun our woe, 



Like plants that fear inclement skies. 



And thus the true of heart remain, 

 Without one altered look or tone ; 



So kind we almost bless the pain. 



That makes us know such friends our own. 



M. 



